Christian: 'Satasia, hast thou ever receivéd
blows hard, forcéd by one rippling crop?
Ana: My lord, you do intend country matters?
Christian: Nay, I who possess such a lusty cock,
And doth harbor a rude satyr's prowess,
Will use such tools that make the panties drop,
To prove my power is stronger than God's.
Christian stares in his whiskey. It is amber and cold. He doesn't speak.
She hears the ice chink. And she remembers the rain.
“Will it make you happy?” she asks. She doesn't look at his face. She looks at the elephant head hung over the mantel.
“Do you think it will make me happy?” he says. He raises his glass as if he is about to drink. But then he sets it down on the brown square napkin.
“I do say, firstly, my dear Anastasia, I do not make love. I fuck. And hard at that,” said Christian. The butler arrived with another silver platter of sugar, but Christian waved him away and continued with his tea.
“Well, Christian,” said Ana, “you do talk good sense. I never did see the point of making love if you weren't fucking hard.”
“But secondly,” continued Christian. “I have far too much paperwork.”
Now, Ana could see no sense in that. But it was such a lovely day in the garden, with Christian's golden curls glowing like Adonis in the sun. And if only to preserve the grace of his steely gaze, she felt most inclined to agree.
Memories—of feeling him inside my mouth
all the way to the back of my throat.
The lights seem too bright—
or is that just my memory,
a reconstruction of the events we passed.
My tongue, I'm sure, swirled around his tip.
Almost, just almost,
like a popsicle.
There was the idea of balls and the idea of thread, but what belonged inside her muscles, stomach? And the Inner Goddess danced the seven veils.
Oh! Curious feelings: boats and old cities. Within her, it rang like bells. She felt risen—ready to open as a flower. And the Inner Goddess danced the seven veils.